


5:11 AM

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: (but this is mostly PWP so the AU aspect shouldn’t really dissuade you), M/M, Masturbation, Modern AU where the ghouls are still ghouls, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: He has no friends. Willow teases him for it all the time. She has said, and, he quotes: “You need to get laid.” Charon’s fine by himself. He doesn’t need a specific subject of his fantasy; it’s better for it to be a constantly shuffling amalgamation of his most vaguest, basest thoughts. Bright eyes and thick thighs, hair to grab and pull, skin that continuously changes from smooth to ghoulified, depending on what he’s into at the moment.
Relationships: Charon (Fallout)/Lone Wanderer, Charon (Fallout)/Male Lone Wanderer, Gob/Charon (Fallout)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44





	5:11 AM

He knows he won’t be able to get to sleep right away. Normally, Charon can shut himself down into sleep like a machine; but, even though he’s bodily and mentally spent, something is itching at him. There’s something in his mind that doesn’t always want to turn off when it’s supposed to. He checks his phone for the time, the light making him squint; it’s five in the morning, too early to be up, even with his ever irregular sleep schedule from working at the 9th Circle.

Laying in bed is just making it hotter, so he gets up, padding bare feet against the wood floor. Across from his room there’s Willow’s door, dark for some time. She’s been assigned the morning guard shifts at the Museum of Natural History, so their schedules haven’t matched up much as of late. He flicks a wall switch on at the end of the hallway. Only one of the lights comes on, the other having long since burnt out. It’s just bright enough to light his way, just on the edge of making him have to blearily squint.

He goes to the fridge. He almost reaches for a beer, and at the last moment grabs the water pitcher, and pours himself a glass from the cabinet. He chugs the first cup, refills it, and takes the second to the bedroom, shutting off the lights behind him as he goes. He doesn’t have to turn the light on in his room, shutting and locking the door behind him. He knows the layout; keeps his room too spartan and clean to leave things around to trip on. He navigates to the side of his bed, dropping off his glass onto the end table as he collapses back into the still-warm rumple of sheets. He closes his eyes, turning his head into the pillow—

Charon can smell him.

There, where Adam laid his head. Pressed for time, he hasn’t changed the sheets since the other night, when he had allowed that college kid to stay the night without anywhere else to go. His phone had died and his friends had left him high and dry. Some perfumed hair product, artificial but expensive smelling, and the smell of his sweat, a faint alcohol smell. It goes, shamefully, right to his dick.

He had slept on the couch. Charon groans for his own benefit, an audible way to denounce his own thoughts: _are we really doing this, right now? Are we not better than this?_ But in no way has Charon truly believed he was better than anyone. He barely can imagine being equal, really, and doesn’t, not deep down, and his hands are already snaking traitorously downward, because why fight his own degradation? His cock is already stiffening against his thigh, and he cups himself, squeezing.

Charon doesn’t date. Where would he find someone to date? At the 9th Circle? None of the other employees that have filtered through the bar have ever really appealed.

Though, that would be lying; because he’s gone through this before, the restless nights and thinking of the way Gob’s mouth looks, the way his voice went soft when he laughed. He got food with him before coinciding shifts, once, at his mothers’ restaurant down the street; not a date. Maybe a date. Charon doesn’t know; he’s self-admittedly dense. Reserved and bad at communicating. But Gob’s been gone for more than a month, now, and he hasn’t seen him since, though he thinks he saw him from across the street when walking from the metro to the bar, one day, his arm still in a sling of Ahzrukhal’s command and his doing.

He has no friends. Willow teases him for it all the time. She has said, and, he quotes: “You need to get laid.”

Charon pushes the elastic waistband of his pajama pants down, pulling out his half-hard cock. Maybe he does, but regardless, that wouldn’t be something he’d admit, not to Willow. Not to anyone. She introduces him to her friends, less for dating purposes and more to socialize him before he “becomes a hermit” or “takes a shotgun to the 9th Circle and puts two rounds of buckshot into Ahzrukhal”, again, all verbatim quotes. There was Fawkes, one of the janitors at the Museum on night shift, and though kind they were ultimately too wordy for him to tolerate for long. Tulip seemed nice, but was at a level of intimidating academic intelligence that Charon could appreciate but had no interest in. Besides, she was wrapped up with Willow the entire night she came to the apartment.

Charon’s fine by himself. He doesn’t need a specific subject of his fantasy; it’s better for it to be a constantly shuffling amalgamation of his most vaguest, basest thoughts. Bright eyes and thick thighs, hair to grab and pull, skin that continuously changes from smooth to ghoulified, depending on what he’s into at the moment. He closes his eyes, stroking his cock in experimental, long strokes; his other hand slides down his thigh, squeezing, rubbing his thumb down the muscle of his leg. He imagines it’s someone else’s hand, spreading his legs as if he needs to make room for this imaginary figure that will settle in between.

That’s what gets him in trouble. Letting himself think in gentler terms, other than what got his dick hard. Thinking of a specific person, and not just a mystery figure spreading his thighs, watching him take his shaft in hand.

He tries not to think of Adam, personally, not of his specific voice or his smile. A handful of curls, soft lips against his own. He tries to keep it physical, and base, because somehow that feels more impersonal and less invasive. Just the thought of a body in his bed, because he’s— not lonely, no. If he keeps thinking like this, he will end up going soft. Charon works his cock, stroking himself in short, quick movements, spreading his legs a little more, digging his heels into the mattress. He pushes his shirt up, skating his fingers over his belly, the cool air prickling up irregular patches of goosebumps on his rough skin.

He’s not getting the right angle, the right feel, so he rolls over onto his stomach. From this angle, he can smell the pillowcase even better, and he presses his face into it, closing his eyes. Charon grumbles at his own thoughts, bracing his arm above his head, pulling himself up onto his knees. It’s a vulnerable position, the kind he’d never be in with anyone else, his back exposed, face down, ass in the air. From pulling down his sweatpants, his lower half is exposed just enough to the cold air, the waistband hitting him at his thighs. But the thought of it— his hand moving faster, hips twitching when he twists and strokes downward— of being in this position, with someone behind him. This unknown person he trusts enough to see him naked, let alone so vulnerable, running fingers down the back of his thighs, digging into the meat of his cheeks, spreading him apart.

He wishes he had more hands, but lets his face press to the pillow, reaching with the hand not steadily stroking his cock behind him, to spread himself a little.

Fingers, or tongue— yes, tongue, he wants a tongue in him, eating him out, smoothing hands down the length of his spine, his back. Mouthing against the back of his thighs, teasing. Pushing a tongue against his hole. Charon squeezes his shaft, his hips twitching forward. He obviously doesn’t have a tongue, but his hand is back there. He wishes, in the moment, that he had slicked his fingers with lube, but he presses one dry finger to himself, teasing; the shallow pressure makes him shudder, the hand on his cock moving faster. Charon can imagine, though, someone else behind him, someone else being the one to spread him apart and lap at him. Imagines the broken little noises of pleasure, muffled, as he watches Charon work his own cock, pressing his tongue in, the warble of Adam’s moan against his skin as he licks him until he’s spent—

Charon’s hips roll of their own accord. His thighs flex, trembling, and he barely manages to cup his hand over the head of his dick before he comes, messily.

“Fuck.” His voice is just a croak, and it suddenly sounds very loud in his ears, almost as loud as his breathing in the empty dark of his room. The exhaustion hits him like a ton of bricks. But, Charon manages to at least roll over before his knees give and he collapses into the bed, towards the nightstand.

He fumbles in the dark for a tissue before he wipes his hand off and throws it, crumpled, to the floor. His sheets feel too-hot still, mildly damp, but now he’s too tired to really care. He takes a gulp of water from the cup on his nightstand, a large trickle escaping his lips, running down from the corner of his mouth, his neck, settling into the divot of his collar bone. Sleep comes easily, after that.

**Author's Note:**

> a short horny b-side to “Fill Holes with More Cement”. thanks for reading!!


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